Today marks day three-hundred thirty-four that I have been dangling here on the edge of this cruel precipice. Do you know how this rough iron manacle chafes against my wrist? I'm thirsty, Father, so very thirsty, and even from this high place the smoke is still so thick that my stinging eyes cannot descry the stars. I should never have followed you here, to this land of darkness where we both were doomed to die.


I just finished writing a song about you, Father. I hope, hope, hope that I have fully captured your essence: the power of your voice that fated night, how you persevered through every trial that wanted to keep us from journeying here to Endor, the boldness it took for you to put your sword through that first Teler. I hope my audience will perceive in my lyrics and melody the terror in his eyes, the sharpness of that dying breath, the way the blood on his silver tunic was spreading before I even realized what you'd done. I've decided to entitle my song Noldolantë; I doubt you would care for it.


I've finally found out why you were never terribly keen on my having a dog. The day I brought him home, as a beaming boy with his brand-new puppy, I remember that Mother slapped you for your description of Oromë. ("Not in front of a child!" she said.) You made me tie him up outdoors; I cried so hard at leaving him out in a storm that Mother risked your wrath to let him in. I wish I had left him to be struck by lightning. Perhaps we would rule Beleriand- and even have your Silmarils again- if I had.


Mother told me you would love to hear it. I was so excited today that I have finally memorized the poem for my lesson, but when Mother said to go down to your workshop and recite it for you, the joy of my accomplishment was immediately overshadowed by the thrill of at last getting to visit you in your "natural habitat." Knowing it to be off-limits, I had never been down before, so I ran as fast as my feet can carry me, bare soles slapping against the stone of the steps as the air around me grew cooler. Seeing you bent over a table of papers, I cried, "Father, guess what?" You didn't guess. You didn't even look up from your project, only harshly commanded, "Leave me, Moryo. Can you not see I'm busy?" Here in my room, I hope I'm not crying loudly enough to interrupt you.


I never found you as hard to please as everyone else did- I know you saw in me a reflection (however cloudy) of yourself, the only person with whom you could never find fault. But today, Father, you would be more proud of me than usual: I stood in front of the half-cousins' people, every eye on me, with this one opportunity to win their loyalty to Turco and I. I didn't just take it, I clasped hold of it and ran like Morgoth with the Jewels that drove me to speak. I know I succeeded: those cravens were terrified. You would have loved to see me do it.


Father, I still love you; I wish you would believe it. Do you not know how the ice in your eyes breaks my heart? I already feel so alone: my closest friend- and only younger brother- now lies in a cold heap of ash somewhere along the coast. Need you further isolate me like this? Don't treat me with the coldness you expect to receive in return for Telvo's death; don't try to pretend away the gaping void in what remains of our family. I would tell you, if only you gave me the chance: that I don't blame you.


It burns